"You two have been dancing around each other for weeks. It was exhausting to watch." Zoe took a bite of cereal, supremely unbothered. "So... is this like a thing now? For real?"
I looked at Maya. She looked at me.
"Yeah," I said. "It is."
Zoe nodded like this was the only acceptable answer. "Good. You're making pancakes, right? Your pancakes are better than Mom's."
"Hey," Maya protested.
"Sorry, Mom. It's just facts."
I laughed and moved to the stove, feeling Maya's eyes on me, feeling like I'd finally found the place I was supposed to be.
"Chocolate chip or blueberry?" I asked Zoe.
"Both."
"That's disgusting."
"You're disgusting."
"Compelling argument."
Maya was leaning against the counter, watching us with an expression I couldn't quite read. When I caught her eye, she smiled that soft, unguarded smile that I'd only seen a handful of times.
I smiled back.
For the first time in three years, I didn't feel like a headline or a hero or a fantasy someone had invented.
I just felt like a man.
Making pancakes for his family.
I'd spent three years running from anything real.
Standing in Maya's kitchen, flour on my hands and Zoe critiquing my technique and Maya watching us both, I knew I'd found what I'd been looking for.
Not fame.
Not fantasy.
Not the hollow attention of people who never really saw me.
Home.
I'd found home.
CHAPTER 12
Maya
I was lettingmyself be happy.
And it terrified me.
Shane stayed over most nights now. His toothbrush lived in the cup next to mine. His jacket hung on the coat rack by the door. His oversized FDNY coffee mug—brought from his apartment—sat in my cabinet like it had always belonged there.
Zoe set three places at the table without being asked. She didn’t make a big deal out of it. Didn’t even mention it. She just pulled out the extra plate, the extra fork, the extra napkin.
